Free Song Above the Clouds by Rosemary Pollock Page B

must be honest with me. Do you wish to be alone, or is it only that you think I do?”
    She found herself smiling back. “No,” she admitted, “I don’t want to be alone—particularly.”
    “Then be kind, and spend the day with me.” He spoke whimsically, but there was a kind of undercurrent beneath the words—could it, she thought, be an undercurrent of loneliness ? —that made her look at him rather quickly. And then she smiled wryly at the absurdity of the idea. He was titled, good-looking, extremely well-off and apparently unburdened with a wife—his problem was much more likely to be the difficulty of getting a moment to himself. Nevertheless, probably because he felt sorry for her, he seemed genuinely anxious that she should accept his offer of lunch, and she knew she couldn’t obstinately persist in refusing without being positively rude.
    They went to a small but obviously excellent restaurant in the shadow of St. Peter’s—which the Conte promised Candy she should see in detail after lunch, or as soon after lunch as she should feel equal to it—and there, despite an almost non-existent appetite she struggled to do reasonable justice to very well prepared ravioli and veal alia Milanese, while her companion talked knowledgeably an d entertainingly about the glories and horrors of the story of Romp, and every so often their ear-drums were assailed by a melodious, world-shaking clangour of bells.
    After lunch they walked in the afternoon sunlight through the splendour of Bernini’s colonnade and into the great basilica itself, and as they passed beneath the portico and paused for a moment on the edge of the glowing interior Candy caught her breath. In one of the chapels a visiting priest was saying Mass, and the murmurous intonation of the ritual was like the living echo of two thousand years of faith. They walked forward, towards the great High Altar, with its towering canopy of bronze, and she felt as if she were drowning in beauty and vastness. Even the air she breathed seemed vaguely electric, as if the wonder and penitence and gratitude of the multitudinous faithful kept it charged with an ecstasy of emotion, and all around the unending whisper and rustle of humanity reminded her that for millions upon millions around the world this spot was second only to Jerusalem as a centre of pilgrimage.
    Candy felt bewildered and shaken and dazzled, for it was all too much to take in at once. She stood staring in front of her with something of the awed fascination of a child, and after a moment Michele di Lucca gently put his fingers beneath her arm and guided her on again until they stood beneath the echoing vaulted magnificence of the huge dome itself.
    “Look up !” he said quietly. “It is one of the sights of the world. Look up !”
    She obeyed, an d then gave a little gasp. “Oh ! ”
    Above her head the glowing magnificence of Michelangelo’s masterpiece soared into incalculable distance—or, at least, to her it seemed incalculable. Its hugeness and the incredible symmetry of the design on which those long-dead craftsmen had tirelessly poured out their skill amazed her, and as she gazed upwards the jewel-clear colours, gilded by sunlight, dazzled her, so that she had to blink and look away.
    “Some people,” said the Conte, “find St. Peter’s much smaller and less impressive than they have expected it to be. Others find it great and beautiful and inspiring beyond anything they could have imagined. I think that you are of the second sort . ”
    “Yes.” The word sounded almost like, a sigh. “Oh, yes.”
    They spent nearly another half hour breathing in the incense-laden tranquillity of St. Peter’s, and because there was so much to see, and Candy, entranced and bewildered, lingered so long over everything it was not until they were practically on the point of leaving that they came to a standstill at last before the majestic bronze figure of Peter before which countless thousands of pilgrims